Jaegers that Weren't!AUs
Silencer (From "Charlie scraps") Charlie's asked to the dean's office. PPDC's there. They (and the dean) rave about her accomplishments and her grades and all her contributions to the university (she's a notetaker for all her classes, TAs a couple others), what a good fit she'd be for the Jaeger programme and University of Sydney would be /thrilled to sponsor her. "It's a relationship built on mutal trust and respect. Not just your Drift partner, but your LOCCENT team and your crew. It's like a second family--they're there to help you and have your back." Charlie says 'yes'. Charlie goes to the Academy. She's fast-tracked for the next Jaeger. Keeps to herself, barely looks at anyone, much less talks. They do manage to find her an 02--Sabine, she-her-hers, blonde. First time they Drift, they wake up the next morning in the same bed, sticky and tangled together. They get on with their lives. . Their Jaeger's brutally efficient. (Charlie gets Sabine to coordinate with the other teams and LOCCENT.) They sleep together a couple more times, always after they Drift, always desperate comebackcomebackcomeback— Until they don't. Charlie stops speaking all together, starts withdrawing. Sabine worries, brings it up with their handler. The PTBs give Charlie pretty things, pretty people, try to get her to engage with /something— Mattie, wearing her most flattering shirt, hair style, and makeup, and awesome jeans, follows the handler into the suite Charlie shares with Sabine. Charlie's just finishing supper. "This is Mattie," says the handler. "Hi!" greets Mattie. "Maybe you two could hang out tonight." "Books're over there," replies Charlie, voice surprisingly gravelly, plugging the sink. The handler stifles a sigh. Mattie gives them a thumbs up. Charlie adds soap. 'Good luck,' mouths the handler. Mattie smiles. Charlie turns on the water, returns to the table for her dishes. The handler leaves quietly. "So," Mattie wanders to the couch. "Recommend anything?" "On the bookcase." Mattie picks one with an author she recognizes. "Wasn't this the guy in the news the other day?" "Couldn't tell you." "I'll look it up!" Charlie washes her cutlery. "Never mind, wrong guy." Charlie washes her plate. Mattie looks around. Lots of trinkets, lots of pictures with beaming famous people (Charlie smiling shyly)-- Mattie frowns. Come to think of it, had she ever heard Charlie say anything in press conferences? Mattie can't bring an instance to mind. Charlie sits on the couch as far from Mattie as she can, turns on the TV. "Anything good on?" asks Mattie. The channel connects. Click. Click. Click. Mattie tils her head. Click. One second. Click. One second. "This show's pretty good." Five seconds. Ten seconds. Commercial break. Click. Mattie swallows a sigh, tries again every couple of minutes until they hit a music station--"I /love this song!" She throws herself to her feet, belts out the lyrics, dances around the main room, adds a cadenza of her own on the find chord, and bows with a flourish. Click. Mattie hops back-- Click. --sits in the middle of the couch-- Click. --continues offering recommendations every few minutes, and tries to decide if Charlie's a blank wall of the smoothest glass to which nothing sticks or a fun and energy-sucking black hole. (She's pretty sure Charlie's more the first.) And that's what they do until precisely 2100 hours, at which point Charlie turns off the TV and goes to her room. Mattie follows. Charlie's room, like the suite, has loads of personality and /looks lived-in but feels...lifeless. Unloved (that's not right). Like a museum exhibit--"the habitat of the 20teens young adult!". Charlie flops into bed, cracks open a paperback. Her closet-- "Oh my gosh!" squees Mattie. "They're so pretty!" Hesitates, twists to Charlie. "Lemme know if I shouldn't touch anything." Corner of Charlie's mouth twitches up. Mattie mentally celebrates, pulls a garment out at random, checks herself out in the mirror. "I love this colour but it looks /awful on me." Sighs, but smiles and curtsies to her reflection, returns the dress to the closet, takes out another. Charlie's closet is chock-full of clothes, sensible shoes, two labeled garment bags (-Suit #1, #2- and -Launch gala-), and three pairs of /wicked heels (one gold, one black, and one in her team colours). And that's what they do until precisely 2130 hours, at which point Charlie sets the book on the bedside table, gathers her PJs from the dresser, and leaves. Mattie peeks out the door-- The washroom door closes. Mattie counts to five, packages away her depressing thoughts, and pulls out her mobile. message sent: this isn't working message received: damn. message sent: sorry message received: no, no, it's fine. you were our last resort. if you couldn't connect, no one could. message-- The washroom door opens. Mattie shoves her mobile back in her pocket. Charlie drops her folded clothes in the hamper, tucks herself into bed. "Night." Turns off the light. "Night!" chirps Mattie. "Want me to close the door--" Charlie sounds like she's already asleep. Mattie lets herself out, hits the hall light, curls up on the couch again with her book, and waits for the handler. . So they send Charlie home. Her family doesn't try to get her to talk; they only see her when the table's set, hide-nor-hair the rest of the time (Tilda, too, for that matter. They're not worried even if she and Charlie aren't wandering together). . The PTBs bring Charlie back to the base. She doesn't look at anyone, much less talk. She and Sabine keep Drifting, keep deploying, keep winning. And then Charlie slips away. The other team takes the kill, the choppers pull them from the ocean; they're a little bruised from the fall but otherwise fine. Charlie reacts slowly to noise, hardly at all to pain, and doesn't notice anything in a visual field (people, for instance. Sabine. Their handler. Doctors, family, crew, faces she sees everyday. A potted plant.). DriftSci runs every test they can think of, hooks Charlie up to every available sim, including some not even in development yet. Nothing. . The PTBs give Charlie an honourable discharge, send her home. Takes two days; the first they spend putting together more shelves and organizers (Little Mike and two of the strays grumble they could've /built far better stuff in less time), hanging the clothes they gave her in her closet, and arranging trinkets and baubles around her room. They keep to themselves and the household stays clear, trying not to be too obvious with their side eyes. They bring Charlie the second day, pushing the wheelchair through the porch, around to the back swing at Cecilia's bequest. They get her set; Charlie tucks her legs up and relaxes into the nest of blankets and pillows, books, games, and lemonade. Tilda makes herself comfortable on the veranda in a sunbeam, gives the lot of them dirty looks. One of the PPDC briefs Cecilia on Charlie's medication, what they should do, what they could do, and what they might expect. (Cecilia half-hopes she keeps her sneer under control.) Then the PPDC tip their hats and leave. Cecilia goes onto the porch and looks at Charlie, and reflects she knew so little about their niece that she couldn't say she didn't recognize her in this state, that she wouldn't know 'conscious' or 'present' from not, and what a pity she probably never would. She swallows the pang and orders Big Mike and a stray into the kitchen to help her with lunch while Red, tending the garden under the railing, gives this 'narrating their day out loud' business a shot. One morning of the third week, as Cecilia's checking on the state of Charlie's toast, Charlie catches her hand, doesn't let go. . She notices her family over the next few weeks, tracking them with only her eyes at first, and then her head. She figures out how to move her arms next, and within six months she can walk around on her own. (Cecilia doesn't say it out loud, but Charlie's skin feels less like the ambient air temperature and more actually warm.) And then one day, when they think everything may be golden from then on, the pump breaks. Instead of replacing it, the house decides to build a new, more efficient system. Their local guy says it's buildable and that maintenance wouldn't be an issue, but they didn't know quite how to design it. The house does some research, keeps getting recommended to this place in Sydney. Cecilia and Red head down, come back a week later with a few consultants. Cecilia shows them around and Red gets lunch going, shooing Charlie from the kitchen despite her protests she could cook just fine. Red agrees, and then points out taste is a more obvious selling feature than a nigh-inedible dish crammed full of nutrients. Charlie huffs, gets the door for Tilda, and marches out back to help feed the flock, Tilda matching her step for step and grumbling the whole time. Charlie just gives her a Look and lugs a bag from the silo. Tilda snaps. A strange voice squawks. Charlie huffs, tugs Tilda away. Stranger picks themselves off the ground. "Uh--" Clears their voice. "Hey." "Hey." Returns to doling out feed. "So you're Charlie?" "I know where she is." Stranger shuffles into her peripheral, rubbing their neck. "Mrs Cecilia said I should talk to a "Charlie" about getting pictures of the pipe behind the nest of one "Tilda the grouch"?" Tilda huffs, ruffles her feathers. "Can't a hand help?" "They've all mysteriously vanished." Charlie twists, casts an eye over the yard. Besides herself, Cecilia, and the consultants, no other humans in sight. She returns to the bag. "Tilda can show you." "I don't think Tilda can spell things out for a mechanically-disinclined noob." "Then you're going to have to wait." "I can wait. You're pretty--your arms are pretty--you're poetry in motion--gawd, that's /such a cliché--I'm going to shut up now." Charlie fills the trough, takes a breather while she's crouched. Stray seed on the brim. Also, emus eying her general area hungrily. Tilda tucks in. Charlie flicks the seed. "Ow." "Thought you said you were gonna shut up." But she's smiling. "C'mon." Folds up the bag, heads off. Meta I'm sorta thinking Mattie's an escort-ish the PPDC has on retainer. Big Mike used to be just Mike and then she had a kid (he's younger than Charlie) at which point they needed something to call the kid so they called him 'Little Mike' and her 'Big Mike'. The strays are the semi-homeless youth who wander in and out. They get three meals a day (and tea), board if they don't mind the stable or the loft, and half minimum wage 'cause the Darlings can only afford that much. Broke (new here) ""Jones!"" Jackson jumps. ""Stop flirting with the patient--"" Chuck flinches. Jackson flushes a stunning crimson. ""--and get back to work!"" "Y-yes, sir!" Jackson hollers over his shoulder. Back to Chuck. "And I wasn't-- though you're /'very'-- it's not like I-- I mean, I /'would' flirt if you weren't--" "You done?" growls Chuck. Jackson eeps, hangs his head. "I'm done. S-sorry to bother you." He slinks off. Meta Same conditions as ANSK /'except' Logan doesn't join Jackson at the Academy. Without his combat-oriented brother, Jackson winds up as the tech he expected to be and gets assigned to J-Tech (Jaeger part rendering), then shared between K-Sci (biomechanical models) and DriftSci (sim design) as Jaeger construction winds down. On one of his trips to Anchorage, he runs into the post-failed-Drift-with-Chuckles Chuck and is, as usual, immediately smitten and tries flirting in his flaily Turtles!esque way. Utonium (From "Button family scraps") Blossom tracks Buttercup down at his favourite park, announces, "The Professor wants to see us tomorrow at nine." Buttercup grunts. "What d'you think it's about?" He sits up, crosses his legs. "Nothing good." Blossom snorts. The next morning, they're all on the couch in The Professor's office; Blossom perches between Bubbles and Buttercup. That's not The Professor behind the desk, not the familiar thug working the door. PPDC's there in their places. They rave about their skill as a fighting team and what a good fit they'd be for the Jaeger programme, how it would be a chance for them to make something of themselves, give back to society. Buttercup laughs, pushes to his feet, strolls— The thug on the door blocks his path— —shoves by— —drops him with a shot from a taser. The Suit behind the desk sighs. "We'd /'hoped' to discuss this like adults, but some people are apparently incapable. Now, then—" Bubbles and Blossom swallow. In Kodiak, Buttercup and Bubbles shift into what Buttercup calls 'round peg' mode; Blossom mostly keeps her head down. The PTBs gleefully announce they've developed a three-way Drift for them. Bubbles' Compatibility score is /'just' within the safety margin. The PTBs hook her up anyway. The first Drift— A /''white-bright-magnesium-blue'' flash and a taste of copper— Blossom wakes up in Medical a month later. Buttercup comes to within the half hour. Bubbles never does. The PTBs remove the third arm from their under-construction Jaeger. Blossom and Buttercup pass the fitness-for-duty test and the PTBs hook them up. The second Drift— A storm of /''black-green-blue'' burning like ice, twining around her /''sunny-violet-warm''. Afterward, Buttercup locks himself in the washroom. Blossom curls up on her bed and /''aches''. They Drift, they deploy, they win. As soon as they're de-armoured, Buttercup locks himself away. In between drops, he won't speak to her, won't look at her. She understands and the /''ache'' grows. Their sixth drop, sixth kill— Blossom burritos in three blankets to wait out the /''ache''. Buttercup croaks, "Hey," from the doorway. The morning after, she wakes up sore, sated, alone. The washroom door's locked. Blossom swallows ECP at Medical. They Drift, they deploy, they win, they fuck. Buttercup avoids her, says nothing. Blossom twists her hair, says nothing. Eleven drops, eleven kills: a new record. They Drift, they deploy, they— The Drift fractures. They keep it together, the other team takes the kill, they stagger back to shore. The morning after, Blossom throws up in her trash bin. Medical offers her a choice of pills. The PTBs offer an honourable discharge if she takes the vitamins. She takes the vitamins and goes home. Word comes Buttercup's been discharged, too, and vanished god-knows-where. Seven months later, Blossom basks in a Townsville sunbeam, hands folded atop the shelf of her belly. Buttercup croaks, "Hey," from the garden gate. Feral (new here) Blossom tracks Buttercup down at his favourite park, announces, "The Professor wants to see us tomorrow at nine." Buttercup grunts. "What d'you think it's about?" He sits up, crosses his legs. "Nothing good." Blossom snorts. The next morning, they're all on the couch in The Professor's office; Blossom perches between Bubbles and Buttercup. That's not The Professor behind the desk, not the familiar thug working the door. PPDC's there in their places. They rave about their skill as a fighting team and what a good fit they'd be for the Jaeger program, how it would be a chance for them to make something of themselves, give back to society. Buttercup laughs, pushes to his feet, strolls— The PPDC behind the desk clears their throat. "Of course, I'm sure we could find a permanent placement for you in the prison system, Mr Jones." —stops mid-step, pivots, slumps back onto the couch. They sign the papers when the Suit offers. In Kodiak, Buttercup and Bubbles shift into what Buttercup calls 'round peg' mode; Blossom mostly keeps her head down. DriftSci pokes about in their brains. A few days later, they poke about some more. Scratching their heads in confusion, the PTBs say Buttercup's Drift Compatibility score is so far outside the safety margin that sharing headspace with him will likely turn all their brains to pudding. The PTBs promise to find Buttercup a different oh-two. He shrugs. Blossom and Bubbles Drift— /''Magnesium-blue-white'' coils around /''sunny-violet-warm'' and everything feels /'right'. Bubbles and Blossom live even deeper in each other's pockets than they used to. It's nearly a month before— "Bubbles?" "Hmm?" "When did you last see Buttercup?" Bubbles squints. "Right before we Drifted the first time, I think." "Same here." Blossom rolls a lock of hair between her fingers. "I'm worried about him." Bubbles shrugs. "He's better at taking care of himself than anyone I've ever met. 'm sure he's fine." Blossom hums in the noncommittal, winds her hair more tightly. . Their third time in the Academy sim, the Kaiju is /'wrong'; too clever by half for the AI and, midway through the fight, sits down right in front of them and stares as they bury a shot in its skull. Blossom and Bubbles exchange glances, shrug. Computers. It happens again the sixth run: the Kaiju frantically dodges them, deflects every punch without even trying one of its own. Bubbles and Blossom corner it, bring it down anyway. /''Something'' about that Kaiju nags the back of Blossom's mind. The seventeenth sim run, the pieces click— The too-clever Kaiju is back a third time, ducking their strikes, desperately refusing to fight. —Blossom and Bubbles' Drift fills with shared memories of blocks and evasions. The Kaiju cowers, belly pressed to the ground, where they've cornered it between buildings. They urk their Jaeger to a halt, exchange a Look. ""Cadets, what're you doing? Kill that thing!"" "No," say Bubbles and Blossom together. ""Cadets. Do. Your. Job."" The Kaiju gently noses their shin. ""/'Cadets.'"" Blossom and Bubbles swallow, "Yes, Ma'am," and execute the Kaiju with a shot to the brain stem. ""Good job, Cadets. Shut down and disengage."" Bubbles and Blossom stare at the Kaiju's corpse until a tech finally pulls the plug on the sim, dumping them back into bland Academy space. In the showers, Bubbles finds her voice first. "We've gotta help." "Mmhmm. Where would you hide him?" The answer flickers across the fading link between them. "Of course," they say together. . While Bubbles runs interference back at the dorms, Blossom bluffs and sneaks her way into the depths of DriftSci, finds him in the second cell along a quiet hallway. A peephole; he can be seen without seeing. curled tight on himself at the foot of the bed, knees to chest, arms on knees, head on arms. She blinks at the fastening. They've trapped him with a simple sliding bolt and a chain. She undoes both, slowly opens the door, slips inside, whispers, "'ey, Buttercup." He raises his head—dark rings 'round his eyes—blinks, croaks her name. She swipes at her eyes, heart closing off her throat. "'s good t' see ye," rasps Buttercup. Blossom floats across the tiny room, crouches beside the bed. "W-what are they doing to you?" "Killin' me. Five, ten times a day." Shudders. "Feel ev'ry one." Pink traceries—mild burns—from a circuitry suit swirl across skin pale as milk on his hands, arms, neck, even his feet. [His feet? He's /'barefoot'.] "The sim?" Affirmative grunt. "But ... you didn't fight us, why didn't you—" "They're mean if I don't." Catches her eye, smiles weakly. "Hoped you'd get it." "We got it, we got it." Swallows. "We're gonna get you outta here." Touches his— Cringes. "/'Don't!'" Blossom stills. "Don't wanna hurt ye." Rubs his neckill-fitting violet scrubs /''shuffing''. "Hit ev'rythin' now." She bites her lip. "I'll get you outta here. Just sit tight." Rusty chuckle becomes a cough. "Ain't got much choice." . Blossom calls in every favor she's ever been owed and gets a text in return: /'blocked:' transplanted yesterday She sags in relief. A deep breath and she heads in search of Bubbles with the good news. . He spends weeks in a place full of Chinese people learning— A hand—his arm—he strikes— Can't— Can't move. ""Yes, tickle him, that's a /'great' idea,"" says a voice over his face. Gentle fingers over his ribs— He lashes— ""Wheee!"" cheers a voice by—/on—his feet. He saves his strength. ""This is pretty comfy,"" remarks a voice off his shoulder. —not to hit out at anything brushing his skin (the triplets help considerably), learning not to be a Kaiju, learning he can sleep and wake up without nightmares. He's more or less human again (at least as human as he's ever been) when The Narrator hands him plane tickets, IDs with his picture and a name he doesn't recognize, and a duffel and Sunglasses drives him to the airport. . At first, Cecilia isn't sure what to make of the latest stray to wander onto the ranch. He's almost twice the average age, for starters, he shifts uncomfortably in a bog standard tee and trousers, but he's just as skinny as the usual newcomer. Cecilia shrugs and explains the terms of employment to him. He bobs his head, drops his duffel on the porch, and sets to work. He doesn't say much and when he does his voice creaks from disuse and bears a Sydneysider's accent. He won't even tell the hands his name. They quickly tire of calling him 'Heyyou' and christen him 'Scarecrow'. He smiles faintly, answers to it immediately. His only real is Tilda. Both refuse to back down and Scarecrow comes away with a wedge-shaped bite on his hand. After that, there's a grudging truce. He doesn't start trouble, but if anyone starts some with him, he sure as shit /'ends' it: quickly, viciously, and with an animal's toothy grin. Mostly he does his chores, eats his meals, sleeps in the loft, and vanishes to some secret spot when he's not needed. One morning the second week, a feral kitten starts following him around. By afternoon, the cat's riding on his shoulders and they're inseparable—except for mealtimes, when the cat hops down and goes mousing among the sheds or in the bush. . It's Little Mike who finds the secret spot one hot afternoon, catching sight of Scarecrow basking in the dry wind and heat under a scraggly tree two hills away from the house, the cat curled up in his lap. Little Mike ambles over, plops beside him. Scarecrow cracks an eye, raises an eyebrow. "You're crackers, sitting out here like this." "Makin' up for lost time." The eye closes. Little Mike squints. "You in jail or something?" Scarecrow grunts. "What was it like?" "Bad." his eyes, turns to Little Mike. "Like me." Grins his awful, feral grin. "Now, shoo." Little Mike shoos. . Word goes around: someone Important's coming. . As dinner comes to a close, Red nods at Scarecrow and another stray, starts clearing the table. Scarecrow gets soap and water going in the sink. The rest of the table—minus Cecelia—wanders back out for a last check before bed. Red moves a stack of plates to the counter, asks, "We know when Kirra's getting here?" "Sometime tomorrow," replies Cecelia, indicating an empty serving plate. The other stray busses it to the counter. "She bringing that boy of hers? Johnson?" "Jackson's coming—" Scarecrow perks up a little— "—but his little brother's staying behind." —shrugs, vanishes back into blandness. Red grunts, nudges Scarecrow from in front of the sink. Scarecrow picks up a towel, collects cutlery from the table. The next morning, Cecilia watches the car roll up the drive from the porch. Charlie and Jackson pile out, waving and grinning. Cecilia smiles widely, waves back. Jackson snags their suitcases and they walk toward the house. Scarecrow, cat draped across his shoulders, strolls by on his way to repairing the busted lock on the far paddock. Charlie stares at him. Jackson squeaks, drops the suitcases. Scarecrow stops, blinks, finally says, "The fuck're /'you' doing here?" "/'Me?!'" yelps Jackson. "What the fuck are /'you' doing here?!" Scarecrow rolls his eyes. "I live here." "Live—?!" Jackson's voice cracks and he flies across the space between them, wraps— The cat squawks and leaps to the ground. —Scarecrow in a hug. "We all thought you were /'dead', ye bastard!" Scarecrow hugs back tentatively, says, "Nope. Still tickin' over." Cecilia steps over to Charlie, eyebrow raised. "You two know him?" "That's Jackson's brother, Logan." ""Why didn't you /'call'?! Nanny's been worried /'sick'!"" "Ah. He /'does' have a name." Charlie furrows her brow. ""No mobile and there aren't payphones here."" Cecilia shrugs. "He doesn't talk much." "That's different," snorts Charlie. "How's he been working out for you?" ""Cecilia has one!"" "Pretty well. Does what we ask, stays out of trouble—" Charlie scoffs. ""Wouldn't wanna impose."" "—and's nearly as good with locks as a skeleton key." Charlie chokes back a laugh, then gives in and doubles over. ""/'Imp—' You won't borrow a phone, but you'll break—"" Cecilia cocks an eyebrow at her. "I take it he's got a backstory I don't know?" Charlie nods through her laughter. ""You can let go'a me any time, Jack."" ""Not yet, idiot."" Logan sighs loudly. . The seasons go 'round again and Blossom, following directions from Little Mike, tracks Logan down at his favourite spot, calls quietly, "'ey, Buttercup." He sits up— The cat oozes off his chest, moseys over to Blossom. —crosses his legs, "'ey, Blossom," gestures for her to sit, offers a canteen. Blossom settles beside him, accepts with a hum. The cat flows into her lap and purrs. She hands back the canteen, absently scratches the cat's ears. "They let ye go?" ventures Buttercup. "Guess you don't get the news up here—" Buttercup rolls his eyes. "—'cause there was a whole blow up in the press about 'enhanced recruitment techniques' and, to save /'some' face, the Powers-That-Be voided all Ranger contracts, offered us a choice of signing up again or going home." Shrugs. "Bubbles and I went home." Buttercup grunts. Blossom tracks the clouds scuttling by, murmurs, "This's beautiful." He shrugs. She rolls her eyes. "I'm thinking of leaving Townsville for someplace quieter. Kinda tired of being a city girl." "Pretty quiet 'round here." "It better be. You're kilometers from /'anything'." Buttercup glances over, eyes crinkling. "Haven't heard th' emus fighting yet." Blossom snorts. "I'm sure it's impressive." Deep breath. "Giant featherdusters aside, it's a little /'too' quiet right here for me. I'm thinking about a smallish town." "Got one in mind?" "Mt Isa seems nice." Twists her hair around a finger. "Problem is, I don't know anyone there." "Won't take long t' make friends." Blossom sighs. "I was kinda hoping you'd move with me." Buttercup blinks. "Ye planning on keepin' me as a pet?" "Nah. I expect you to work—" He frowns. "—and every town can use a locksmith who keeps eccentric hours." Buttercup raises an eyebrow. "Mrs Cecilia told me about your 'talent'," grins Blossom. you're developing a reputation as a miracle worker with locks around here." He huffs. "What're /'you' gonna do?" Her grin widens. "I figure I'll keep your books—" "Oi!" "—and you'll teach me some of the tricks so I can help the unfortunate souls locked out of their houses when you're 'indisposed'." Buttercup frowns harder. Blossom nudges his shoulder. "C'mon, sharing a flat with me is /'totally' a step up from the barn loft." "Mrs Cecilia tell ye /'that', too?" "Yup. She's also worried about what it's doing to your back, old timer." Buttercup pouts, "'m not /'old'." "You're just old/'er' than the rest of the strays on this place." Blossom leans against his side. "You deserve an /'actual' bed in an /'actual' house, Buttercup." Deep breath. "Don't wanna owe ye any more, Blossom." The cat slides out of Blossom's lap and into Buttercup's. "Wha?" He ducks his head. "Ye saved me from ... that place. Th' Narrator told me." Rubs his neck. "I owe ye." Blossom rolls her eyes. "Life's not a checkbook, Buttercup." Pushes to her feet, tugs at his arm. "go, you. I promised I'd have the car back by dinner." Buttercup nudges the cat onto his shoulder, lets Blossom pulls him to his feet. "Ye already rented a place, ay?" "Yup." She walks toward the house. two bedrooms, pet-friendly. The cat squints at Blossom, /''frrp''s in approval. "Took a big chance there." He falls into step. "Nah. I knew you'd come." Buttercup snorts. [. "Rise 'n shine, Buttercup!" chirps Blossom, whipping open the curtains. Buttercup groans, buries his face deeper in his pillow. "Wrong response," she chides, pokes the back of his head. Buttercup tucks his head /'under' his pillow. "Go 'away." "Nope." Blossom huffs. "Your breakfast is getting cold." Lifts the corner of his pillow, peeks out at her blearily. "Cereal?" She grins. "Pancakes and jam." He flings the pillow at her— "Hey!" —throws back the covers, leaps out of bed, sprints through the door. "Oh my god, Buttercup! Put on some clothes!" ""/'Pancakes!'"" Blossom rolls her eyes, snags a pair of boxers from the floor, strolls to the kitchen.] Category:Ficlet Category:Charlie Category:Charlie (ficlet) Category:Darling family Category:Jaegers that weren't!AUs Category:Darling family (meta) Category:Logan Category:Bubbles Category:Blossom Category:Logan (ficlet) Category:Bubbles (ficlet) Category:Blossom (ficlet) Category:Jackson digs himself a hole Category:Jackson sucks at tools Category:Tilda Category:Tilda (ficlet) Category:Blossom is pregnant Category:The Drift Category:The Professor (mention) Category:Logan has a rapsheet Category:This PPDC isn't good people Category:This PPDC gets what it wants Category:Suits Category:DriftSci Category:Liu (mention) Category:Cheung Category:Cheung (ficlet) Category:Jin Category:Jin (ficlet) Category:Hu Category:Hu (ficlet) Category:Hannibal (mention) Category:Cecilia Category:Cecilia (ficlet) Category:Snicket Category:Snicket (ficlet) Category:Little Mike Category:Little Mike (ficlet) Category:Red Category:Red (ficlet) Category:Jackson Category:Jackson (ficlet) Category:Derek (mention) Category:Nanny (mention) Category:Logan hates mobiles Category:Logan is not a morning person Category:Blossom is a morning person Category:Logan has no shame